


A Complete Education

by Marquise



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: ASoIaF Kink Meme, Caning, F/M, Instruction, Older Man/Younger Woman, Oral Sex, Punishment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-03
Updated: 2011-08-03
Packaged: 2017-10-22 04:08:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/233588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marquise/pseuds/Marquise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Petyr is completely invested in Sansa's education.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Complete Education

**Author's Note:**

> Written to fill this prompt: _Petyr teaches her old Valyrian and makes her read to him and punishes her for every mistake she makes. When he is feeling especially wicked he'll...distract her. - oral_
> 
> I regret noting.

Petyr was of the belief that, in spite of the cold and isolation of the Eyrie, it was vital that her lessons not be allowed to slip. Not only that, but he wished very much to see her education continue and grow, as he told her during their evening chats—he would watch her do her needlework, and remark that the skills she had been given were not enough to see her through the Game of Thrones.

“Education is a powerful tool,” he told her one night, when he was deep in his cups but still lucid. His eyes had a tendency to sparkle wickedly then, and he was fond of pulling Sansa down into his lap. She was fond of it too, though she could not have said why—the early awkwardness had given way to a peculiar pleasure, a sense of comfort that came from the feeling of his arms around her. It quickly evolved into something more than comfort though, as much as Sansa tried to deny it. The feel of his rapid heartbeat, his hot gaze, the press of something hard on the back of her thigh—all of it caused her stomach to flutter at the time, and made up her fantasies as she lay in bed at night. It was a shameful thing, these wicked thoughts that filled her mind and caused her to slip a hand between her legs, but as long as she did not speak it outside of the bedroom she figured there was no harm in it.

Soon she began to miss him dearly when she was not in his presence. She didn’t think much about why. Perhaps it was because the Eyrie was so empty. More than likely it was because he knew most of her secrets, just as she knew many of his. In his presence the pressure that hung, unnoticed, about her shoulders all day disappeared. Soon, there was no more kidding herself—the quiet hours in his solar were second only to the nights under her sheets, her fingers wet.

So when he suggested that he should continue her education his self, she smiled sweetly and asked when they could begin.

****

When she arrived that first evening and he told her that they would be reading High Valayrian, she had to admit that she was perplexed.

“Is this a useful skill for the game?” she asked him, paging through the book that sat between them on the desk. Seated behind it, he smirked and templed his fingers.

“All skills are necessary. That’s important to know when you play the game. You must be prepared for every eventuality, sweetling.” He reached across to take one of her hands. “Have you read High Valyrian before?”

Sansa shook her head and he seemed unduly pleased with that. “Then we’ll go slow. We’ll start with some of the basic sounds of the language. Are you ready to begin?”

“Yes.” Sansa straightened herself in front of the desk. “Shall I take a seat?”

“No, remain standing my dear. Standing is the proper posture for reciting. I will not keep you long.”

That night’s lesson consisted of the alphabet and pronunciation. Sansa found the language flowed fairly easy off her tongue, but she had always been a quick learner. Petyr watched her intently, taking sips from his wine and making small corrections. He smiled throughout, a peculiar smirk whose meaning she did not know, but which caused heat to pool at the space between her legs. She laid her palms flat on the desk and met his gaze whenever she could; the heat in there caused her heart to pound.

At the end of the lesson he kissed her on the lips, and she lingered longer than usual. He sent her to bed with a smirk, and as soon as she pulled up the covers she dipped her hand between her legs to find herself dripping wet. It was wrong, it was wicked, and she didn’t care.

 _We all have secrets in the game,_ she heard him whisper as her fingers picked up their pace.

****

The switch he laid in front of her during the next lesson was slender, no bigger than her little finger. She studied it carefully, then met his eyes.

“What’s this for?” she asked, knowing the answer. Her stomach knotted, though not in fear.

He smiled, looking a bit too eager. That was something she had noticed about him, his inability to hide his eagerness. “It’s for correction, my dear. Don’t worry about it too much—I won’t be too rough, and you did so well yesterday, it is doubtful I will even need to use it.” He took it in his hand and walked around the desk till he was behind her. “Now, begin to recite.”

She made it through several lines without error, feeling her confidence grow even as she remained on edge, waiting for the blow to strike. She didn’t have to wait long. On the fifth line she stumbled on the pronunciation of an unfamiliar word and felt a sting as the switch came down across her backside.

It didn’t hurt much. He had been true to his word and not swung too hard. But it caused her heart to leap into her throat all the same. She turned her eyes toward him and found his caring, though his mouth was a smirk.

“Continue, my dear. But I warn you—the more mistakes you make, the harsher I’m going to have to be.”

The switch made contact with her backside more and more often as the evening went on, till she was sure she would have red marks even though her skirts were down. Towards the end, she could not be completely sure her mistakes were genuine, and not created by herself or imagined by him. With each hit of the switch, it was like something opened inside her.

Around midnight he declared the lesson over, and Sansa found herself strangely disappointed. He backside stung and tears had begun to well in the corners of her eyes, but her legs were slick with her desire and she ached for his touch; he hadn’t laid a hand on her all evening. When she turned to kiss him goodnight, she made a point of rubbing against the bulge in his breeches and was pleased when she felt his breath catch as he tried to control himself.

 _Oh yes, I’m certainly learning something,_ she thought to herself as she made her way to her rooms, a smirk on her lips.

****

In the years since she had first come to the Eyrie, she had gotten to know him quite well. She prided herself on being one of the few people who saw Petyr, not just Littlefinger, and who knew many of his secrets. She was greatly indebted to him, and knew that she had changed much under his tutelage. She could predict many of his movements and knew that he felt some degree of pride in that, as much as he tried to control her.

That was why it did not surprise her the least when, during the next lesson, he told her to lift up her skirts and lower her smallclothes.

“I fear you didn’t feel it enough, sweetling. And I don’t wish to be too hard on you of course.” His explanation was accepted by both of them, but they both knew the real reason. She was grateful that she had her back to him, as she didn’t want him to see the flicker of interest that crossed her eyes. Not yet, at least.

“Must I?” she asked, her voice trembling. _Good. That’s good._

“I’m afraid so.” She could hear him already struggling for control, but he was still eager to play his part. They both were, and that caused her stomach to flutter. She was good at role-playing, had become good out of necessity, and she was willing to see how far this instructor role would go.

She did as she was told, then placed her palms on the desk and leaned forward. She heard his breath stop—just a small hitch—and desperately wanted to turn around, but forced herself to conform to the role he expected. _Sweet, innocent, dutiful pupil. He doesn’t wish to hurt you, but he will._ She began to recite.

She had become passingly good at the language, even though she knew now that that was not the true purpose of these lessons. She made it ten words before she stumbled, and felt the switch make contact with her bare skin.

Either it hurt worse on bare flesh or he was rougher this time; the sting was twice as painful as what she experienced during the previous lesson. Her palms slipped a bit on the desk, her legs jerked, and she looked back at him with wide eyes. He was rubbing the switch up and down her backside, an odd form of comfort, and his eyes locked with hers. She could see beads of sweat on his forehead and tension in his wrist. _He’s holding himself back._ Wordlessly, he nodded and she continued.

She only made it five words before she felt the sting again, and this time she let out a strangled cry.

“Be quiet,” Petyr hissed, his voice strained. “Do you want the servants to find you like this?”

“I’m sorry, my Lord,” Sansa responded. In truth it had been the suddenness of the act that had caused her to cry out. It hurt, yes, but there was an odd form of pleasure that was beginning to creep underneath the pain. She never would have thought the two could so closely exist, but as the sting faded on her backside she became painfully aware of how wet she was. Just the presence of him, behind her, fully clothed and barely in control, was enough to cause her to lose focus.

As she continued to recite, a wicked thought entered her mind. With just a slight shift of her body she was able to open her legs just enough to expose her dripping quim to him. She listened carefully for his response, and smirked at his sudden intake of breath.

“Oh, Sansa…” she heard him say under his breath, so quietly she was not sure he knew he spoke out loud. She straightened her shoulders and continued her reading, determined to get it right this time, to make him stare and wait.

She went two lines, five lines, ten lines without incident. She could feel the switch against her backside, slightly moving as he shifted his weight. Even without seeing him she knew he was staring at her quim, and the thought only made her wetter, till the heat almost became unbearable. She tried to focus on her goal of teasing him, but it was becoming a bit too much. In a few more lines she would allow herself to slip, and then he would bring the switch down…

She felt a slight pressure on her slit, and thought at first he was prodding her with the switch. But no, it was still resting on her backside and this was warm. She felt whatever it was flex, and knew they were his fingers, prodding at her, teasing her. Her breath stopped and all thought of control went out the window. “My Lord?”

“Sansa,” he said, clearly trying to make his voice as even as possible. “You’re being quite wicked. I do believe I’m going to have to punish you for that.”

She bit her lip and nodded, and when the blow came she could not stop herself from moaning. He rubbed her backside with one hand, calming her, and implored her to continue.

She couldn’t, the words were spinning. All that existed for her was his hand, his body, the switch, and her drenched sex. She yearned for something more than just his touch, but he had told her to continue and she must play her part.

She made it two words before she felt a different sort of pressure, warm and wet, at her entrance. She knew instantly that it was his mouth, his tongue, exploring what his fingers had only grazed. Sansa didn’t even try to form words; she pushed back against his mouth, imploring him, and the only thing that passed her lips were soft mews.

He ran his talented tongue down her folds, down her slit, and eventually settled on teasing her hard nub, making her squirm. Sansa rested her head down on the book with a whimpering cry that intensified when Petyr suddenly pulled away. Before she even had time to look up, he brought the switch down, hard.

She cried out and pushed herself off the desk to look at him. His lips were glistening from her sex, the corners turned up. His gray-green eyes were dancing, the same wicked look he got when he was in his cups evident now. “I don’t think you were reciting what was on the page, do you sweetling?” He used the switch to move her back into position.

Now it was Sansa’s turn to struggle for control. She could still feel his mouth on her sex, and everything on the page paled in comparison. He had one slim hand on the center of her back and heat seemed to be radiating from it, causing every inch of her body to shake with pleasure. There was no hope now of her controlling when she would slip up, and the switch came down again and again, drawing unladylike moans from her throat.

In the middle of a sentence she felt his mouth return to her, and could not stop herself from moaning his name. Sansa felt that damned smirk against her folds, and her hands began to tremble.

Petyr was undoubtedly well-practiced at this, able to work her up to the point of release, then pull back at the last moment. They repeated this practice for some time: he would devour her with his clever mouth, his tongue prodding at her entrance, then implore her to continue. When she slipped up, as she did more and more often, the switch would come down and the whole process would start again. Everytime Sansa felt she would tumble over the edge he would pull back, and go back to his role of instructor.

Not that it seemed easy on him. She could hear his breathing, feel his straining cock as he brushed up against her, and wondered why he did not just grant them both release. The torture was exquisite, she had to admit, but there had to be a point where it would end.

She somehow managed to make it to the end of one page and that, she felt, was good enough. With the last word she reached behind her to take his hand, and pressed it against her breast, her nipples hard and taunt. He let out a laugh—either mocking her weakness or celebrating her desire, she was not sure which—and returned his mouth to the place she wanted it.  
Now he paid almost exclusive attention to her nub, which allowed him to slowly slip one, and then two, fingers deep inside. No one’s fingers had ever been there, save for her own, and his were longer and more insistent. Not only that they were _his_ , and the thought of that alone almost made her come. Almost, but not quite—he had to fuck her roughly with his fingers and tease her clit a bit more before she felt the familiar building of pleasure. _It’s too soon,_ she thought, _and not soon enough._

Her orgasm was like nothing she had ever experienced. It built slowly but soon she felt her entire body start to break, shatter, tears wet on her face and throat sore from crying out. She wondered, absurdly, if the servants had heard her and decided she did not care. Petyr would help her create a tale they would believe, he was good at that.

He kept his mouth on her as the main tremors settled, to be replaced with a soft shaking, the kind that accompanies worn out muscles. Sansa closed her eyes in weary pleasure. She could slept right here, just like this, and be pleased.

When she felt her legs begin to steady she made to rise up, only to be pressed gently back by his hand on her shoulder. Her mind reeled with questions about what would come next. _Is he going to take my maidenhead now?_ she asked herself, and the prospect seemed more appealing than it did before he took a hand in her education.

His breathing, she noted, was growing more and more ragged and he had pushed her gown up until her lower back was exposed. He was looming over her, his weight almost pleasant, and before long she knew the reason for this position. He let out a strangled groan and she felt a warm stickiness as his seed dripped onto her skin. The feel of it was enough to send her trembling again, and she whispered his name into the wood of the desk.

It was then that he pulled her up and brought her around for a hungry kiss. She tasted herself on his lips, and if she was not already drenched that would have been enough. He helped her clean, the picture of attentiveness, and she felt a little pang as he ran his handkerchief down her back.

“Not bad for a beginner,” he said, in a tone of voice that betrayed nothing of what had just happened. She mimicked that tone herself as she thanked him for the lesson. She had a feeling that learning how to hide this would be of more use to her than High Valayrian ever would.


End file.
